by Dutchman
Striving to appear casual, Weiser followed the manager to the gilded entrance of the dining room, casually hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets, and waited there as the manager went to a table beside an exquisite stained glass window. The men seated at the table wore suits of the finest quality, the kind of suit Weiser intended to have for himself very soon.
Henry Wells and William G. Fargo were accustomed to being approached by young men in search of a job. They looked at Weiser, amused at his self-confidence, and decided to have a little fun at his expense. “You may show him to our table,” Wells said to the manager, “and have our waiter stand by with another bottle of champagne.”
When Weiser was seated, Fargo opened the conversation by asking, as if it were a matter worthy of his serious attention, “How can we help you, Mr. Weiser?”
“I would like to invest in your express company and serve on your board of directors,” Weiser answered, boldly meeting Fargo’s gaze.
Like a poker player upping the ante, Fargo said in a quiet voice, “How much are you prepared to invest, Mr. Weiser?”
No stranger to this game, Weiser countered, “How much do I need?”
“Fifty thousand dollars,” Wells said, entering the conversation.
Weiser registered this astonishing figure with the briefest flicker of his eyes before catching himself and saying, “I don’t have that much at this time, sir, but it won’t be long now.”
The corners of Fargo’s mouth turned up ever so slightly as he said, “Would you care to tell us how you expect to raise this money?”
“Yes, sir,” Weiser replied promptly, desperately trying to keep his cool. “I’m going to find gold.”
“By God, you’re a man after my own heart,” Wells burst out gleefully, slapping his knee. “A man who approaches us with no fortune besides the shirt on his back and wants to buy shares in a company that exists only in the minds of my partner and me.”
Fargo’s smile broadened as he said, “You’re the kind of get-up-and-go young man we like to work with, Mr. Weiser. Come back and see us as soon as you have your gold.”
As if on cue, the maitre d’ appeared at their table with a bottle of champagne. Weiser’s eyes widened when he saw it was Dom Pérignon. Insensitive to being the butt of their joke, Weiser drank one glass of their champagne and left, realizing he had to find gold fast. And he was going to have to pick up the pressure on Waltz in order to do that.
As soon as Weiser was out of sight, Wells and Fargo had a good laugh at his expense and promptly forgot him.
While Weiser was off sipping champagne, Waltz had taken one look at the cost of a meal in the hotel coffee shop and settled for tinned meat and hardtack from his saddlebag. Stuffing his food in his pocket, he set out to explore the city. Unsure where to start, he went to a newsstand across from the hotel and asked what a visitor might want to see.
“Go down to the harbor,” the news seller suggested. “There’s ships from all over the world.”
“I’ve seen the harbor,” Waltz replied.
“Well, how about Portsmouth Plaza? It’s where the action is, the center of our finest hotels and gambling parlors,” the news seller said.
“I don’t care about fine hotels and gambling parlors,” Waltz said, beginning to wonder if there was anything in San Francisco he really wanted to see.
“All right, then,” the news seller said, growing impatient. “You can climb Telegraph Hill for the best view in town; on a clear day you can see ships sailing through the Golden Gate. Just walk north and you can’t miss it.”
Waltz thanked the man and set off. The noise of the city made his head throb, and the high-pitched yammer of yellow-skinned men pushing and shoving in the narrow streets of Chinatown made him want to scream. As he fought his way through throngs of men who all seemed to be headed for the gold at Sutter’s Mill, he vowed this was the last time he’d go to any big city.
Reaching the top of Telegraph Hill, Waltz sat down on a flat rock, buttoned his jacket, watched the fog roll in, and rethought his future. When they had started out, he’d been confident they were right to go to Sutter’s Mill, but he hadn’t counted on this overwhelming stream of other prospectors heading the same way. Even if Sutter’s Mill was the richest strike in America, it had to be diminishing daily. On the other hand, the Sierra Nevada was a mighty big mountain range and the odds were excellent that there were other, equally rich strikes to be found in them hills.
Waltz let out a long breath, stood up, and went down to find men who had actually prospected, and see what they had to say.
He peeked into the Aquila d’Or, where he saw life-sized paintings of naked women hanging on the wall and real women flaunting their bosoms. As he stared, an insolent woman with fiery red hair took hold of his hand and pressed it to her bare breast. Waltz brushed her aside as he headed for the bar and a bit of eavesdropping. He was on a mission and wasn’t interested in fooling around.
Sliding onto a barstool, Waltz fumbled in broken English to ask for the cheapest beer but was instead served a tall glass of pilsner that cost more than a day’s pay back in Germany. He sipped it slowly and struggled to understand the whispers of the man on his left, “I been covering news for the Herald American thirty years, an’ I ain’t never seen nothing like this Gold Rush out at Sutter’s Mill! It’s a goddamn anthill of men working forty-by-forty claims on both sides of the stream. Newcomers perch like eagles waiting to pounce on a claim, an’ they ain’t above murder to get one.”
On Waltz’s right, two pick and shovel salesmen had their heads together. “That country east of Marysville is gonna be the next Sutter’s Mill,” the first man said. “I tell you, Sam, I’m quitting my job tomorrow to go prospecting myself!”
“That’s a helluva gamble, Willy,” Sam whispered back. “Are you sure you wanna do that?”
“Sure I’m sure,” Willy replied, looking around to see if anyone was listening.
Waltz feigned indifference, keeping his eyes fixed on the mirror behind the bartender and helping himself to some peanuts in a crystal bowl. As Waltz watched, the bartender slyly slipped a little tap water into the whiskey bottle in his hand. And he heard Willy whisper, “I’m sick and tired of watching other guys get rich while I bust a gut hauling my sample cases around this damn territory! I’m going to Marysville because those Marysville storekeepers bought more picks an’ shovels yesterday than they ever did in the entire two years I been going up there. Now that’s a sure sign there’s gold in them parts.”
Sam stared at Willy and said, “My wife’d kill me if I went with you.” He grinned then and tossed off his drink. “Hell, one more drink an’ I’ll go with you tonight!” he said, slapping his buddy on the back.
Swaying slightly, Willy stood up and said, “That’s wunnerful, Sam, but let’s get some dinner first.” With their arms around each other’s shoulders, the two men wove their way to the swinging doors and disappeared from sight.
All that talk really got Waltz to thinking something that he didn’t want to think: Maybe Weiser was right about being in a hurry to get their gold. This was a rush, and if they wanted their share of it, they had to get moving.
Waltz finished his beer and went out, pausing on the steps to clear his head of smoke and noise. As he stood looking around, he saw a man step out of the fanciest hotel on the street, stand on its veranda, and light a cigar. The man was Jake Weiser dressed up in a new shirt. What the hell was he up to?
Waltz plunged into the milling crowd, so intent on reaching Weiser he failed to notice a pair of thugs behind him until he felt a hand in his pocket. Waltz reacted by grabbing the pickpocket’s arm, throwing him to the ground, and sitting on his back.
Unfortunately for Waltz, the pickpocket had friends that included Officer Timothy O’Shaughnessy, the policeman on the beat. Waltz’s broken English was only worsened by his anger and temper, causing his explanation to tumble out in incomprehensible mumbo jumbo. Officer O’Shaughnessy handcuffed Waltz, marched him to the
station, and booked him.
Waltz desperately screamed for Weiser as he was being dragged off, but Weiser was utterly oblivious to Waltz’s predicament. He had more important things on his mind, like the fashionable suits he would wear as a partner in the banking business when he got his gold.
An hour in a jail cell was enough for Waltz to regain his composure and explain his situation to the officer on duty, but his request to send for Weiser was met with a deaf ear until he produced a small gold nugget from his pocket. Pocketing Waltz’s nugget, the policeman sent for a messenger, a freckle-faced boy with flaming red hair and a lopsided grin who stuck his head in the door and said, “What can I do for you, sir?”
Waltz gave this boy his last nugget and sent him to find Weiser. Regrettably for Waltz, his messenger didn’t get any farther than the nearest tavern.
Unaware Waltz had seen him on the veranda of the California Exchange hotel, Weiser returned to their shabby hotel and went up to their room, where he took off his new shirt, folded it neatly, and concealed it in his saddlebag before putting on his old shirt. What his partner didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Returning to the lobby Weiser approached the front desk, where a slovenly clerk with grease spots on his vest was turning the pages of the Police Gazette and leering at photographs of scantily clad strippers. Weiser’s thin lips tightened with distaste as he rang the bell. The clerk looked up from his magazine and mumbled, “Whaddya want?”
“Did my partner leave a message for me?” Weiser asked.
“No,” the clerk replied, and went back to reading his magazine.
Weiser shrugged and went back to their room, content to have the tiny room to himself for a while.
An hour later, Gideon Roberts knocked on the door, looking for Waltz.
“I haven’t seen him,” Weiser replied.
“Do you know where he went?” Roberts asked.
“No,” Weiser said carelessly.
Surprised at Weiser’s lack of concern, Roberts looked at his watch and said, “It’s ten o’clock. That’s pretty late for him to be walking around in a strange city.”
“Waltz is a grown man,” Weiser snapped. “He can take care of himself.”
Not bothering to hide his disapproval, Roberts said sharply, “I’m surprised that a man as smart as you wouldn’t understand that a man like Waltz, whose English is limited, could get lost and not be able to find his way back here. San Francisco is a rough town, especially for an immigrant like Waltz.”
Weiser returned Roberts’s scowl and said, “You’re the leader of our little group. If you’re so concerned about Waltz’s welfare, why ain’t you out looking for him?”
“He’s your partner,” Roberts responded, indignant at Weiser’s indifference. “If Waltz is in trouble, he’s your responsibility.”
Weiser already suspected Roberts needed Waltz’s help as a prospector, and this show of concern confirmed it in Weiser’s mind. But it also reminded Weiser that he needed Waltz to secure his own future. With an outward show of contrition and just a hint of sarcasm, Weiser said, “You’re right, Roberts. I’ll go right now an’ save Waltz from the dangers of the big, bad city.”
Weiser began his search for Waltz at the corner newsstand. “I’m looking for my partner,” he said. “He’s a big man with a German accent. Have you seen him?”
The news vendor had been on duty all day. He was hungry and his feet hurt. “Nah, I ain’t seen him,” was his brusque reply.
Weiser displayed a small piece of gold in his palm briefly, then turned as if to go.
“Wait a minute, mister,” the vendor said quickly. “I might of seen your partner. He was asking about seeing the sights. I told him Telegraph Hill is the place to go an’ he started off in that direction.”
Weiser paid the vendor, who pocketed the nugget and said, as an afterthought, “But it’s pretty late for sightseeing. Your friend is probably having a time for hisself over at Portsmouth Place. That’s where the action is this time of night.”
Meanwhile, back at the city jail, Waltz was growing impatient. From his cell he could see the desk sergeant reading a newspaper and taking occasional sips from a flask he kept in his drawer. A fly buzzed in, circled the cell, found nothing of interest, and departed.
As the hours passed, Waltz realized he still needed Weiser’s English-language skills. He also remembered Weiser’s look of satisfaction as he had stood on the steps of that fancy hotel, and realized he might be looking to desert his partner, take his share of the gold, and live a comfy life in San Francisco. “That ungrateful bastard,” he thought bitterly, his anger rising. “I wouldn’t put it past him to go off an’ leave me.”
Stretched out on the lumpy cot in his cell, Waltz drifted off to sleep. He was awakened by the sound of Weiser talking to the officer on duty. “I’m looking for Jacob Waltz. He’s a member of my prospecting party.”
The policeman’s brow furrowed as he said, “We’re holding a Jacob Waltz. But I don’t think he’s the man you’re looking for, sir. The man we’re holding is a roughneck who don’t speak no English.”
The corners of Weiser’s lips curved up as he said, “On the contrary, Officer, he may well be my man. What are the charges?”
The policeman picked up the top sheet on his stack of papers and read, “Jacob Waltz viciously attacked Timothy O’Leary, twisted his arm behind his back, threw him to the sidewalk, and sat on his back. When Officer O’Shaughnessy arrived on the scene, Waltz waved his arms like a mad man and shouted gibberish. Timothy’s brother Sean O’Leary helped subdue Waltz and bring him in.” When Weiser, didn’t comment, the policeman added, “I wasn’t on duty when they brought Waltz in, an’ all I know is what’s on this report. But he ain’t given me any trouble so far.”
“Thank you, Officer,” Weiser said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a small gold nugget that he set on the desk. “Is it possible for me to see Mr. Waltz? I’d like to hear his side of the story.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Weiser,” the policeman said, picking up the nugget and taking a ring of keys from his desk drawer.
Weiser followed the policeman to Waltz’s cell, but instead of the grateful reception Weiser expected, Waltz scowled and snapped, “It’s about time you showed up.”
Shocked by the sharpness in Waltz’s tone and unaware of the messenger he’d sent, Weiser stared at him and said, “Look here, Waltz, I’ve been scouring the city for you all evening. If this is all the thanks I get, maybe I should leave. ”
Unaware the freckle-faced messenger had failed to deliver his message, Waltz glared at Weiser and in a low tone more menacing than a shout said, “Hold it right there, you lazy good-for-nothing excuse for a partner. I been sitting in this cell for hours waiting for you to show up. If you think you can walk away, you better think again. You ain’t pulled your weight since we left St. Louis, an’ you damn well better start now!”
Weiser looked at Waltz behind bars and realized this was a golden opportunity to even the score for Waltz’s socking him in Los Angeles. And to replenish his own supply of gold while he was at it. “Wait a minute, Waltz. Right now you need me a hell of a lot more than I need you,” Weiser said. “You better watch your step or I’ll leave you here to rot.”
Waltz jumped to his feet, shook the bars of his cell violently, and shouted, “If you go out that door, you’re a dead man! I’ll tear this place down brick by brick an’ come after you. An’ you can’t run fast enough or far enough to get away from me!”
Weiser’s eyes widened. And the wheels began to turn in his head. His protesting partner had not outlived his usefulness just yet, not until Weiser had his fifty thousand. And he knew he was going to have to play it cool until he did, like it or not.
Backtracking with a nervous laugh, he said, “Take it easy, Waltz. I was only fooling. Can’t you take a joke? You must know by now I wouldn’t go off an’ leave you, not for a million bucks! I’m your partner, ain’t I?”
Waltz let go of the bars and ro
ared, “Well, what’re you waiting for? Get going before I lose my temper!”
Weiser met Waltz’s eyes and said, “I’m waiting because I gave my last nugget to that policeman out there. You’re gonna have to tell me where you’re hiding your gold.”
Waltz’s black eyes narrowed and his bushy black brows moved toward each other as he stared at Weiser and thought, “That bastard is using this situation to justify getting my gold. But he’s got me by the short hairs, all right, an’ we both know it.” Resigned to the situation, he simply said, “It’s at the bottom of my saddlebags.”
Weiser went out front and said, “I’m going back to our hotel to get bail for my partner. How much is it going to cost me?”
“That little nugget you gave me earlier is worth about twenty bucks,” the policeman said. “Two more’ll get him out.”
“That’s a lot,” Weiser said, “an’ I’m not rich yet. How about settling for one nugget?”
The policeman grinned and replied, “I ain’t rich, either. Sixty bucks is the going rate. Take it or leave it. And you better get moving — the night duty officer won’t let you off so easy.”
An hour later, a little to Waltz’ surprise, Weiser showed up with the gold, and Waltz was a free man. In an attempt to salvage what was left of the evening, Weiser suggested they go to a restaurant and have an expensive meal on Waltz’s money.
Without answering, Waltz strode swiftly down the stairs. Weiser hurried after him. “What about supper?” he repeated. Waltz kept walking as if Weiser hadn’t spoken.
“What’s the matter, Waltz?” Weiser said, raising his voice. “I thought you’d be grateful I got you out of jail. You’re acting like you don’t even want me around.”
Waltz wheeled abruptly and snapped, “You got that right, Weiser. I don’t want you around, but obviously we’re stuck with each other. If we want to get our share of the gold that’s out there, we’re going to have to put up with each other. Just keep your distance an’ don’t double cross me.”